Read the Lord Bird Dog as a dispatch from the Wilderness camp and it's a guaranteed disappointment. In 2005, Wilderness unleashed a spectacular debut-- a dense, demanding gnarl of pitiless howls and spidery guitars. The Baltimore four-piece's solid second LP remained within previously drawn parameters and received, predictably enough in this age of novelty, a cooler reception. So to better manage expectations, you might want to approach Wilderness guitarist Colin McCann's solo LP as the modest, small stakes "How I Spent My Band's Hiatus" document it is.
Even for fans of the homemade and rough-hewn, the record isn't going to reshuffle any mental year's-best lists. McCann's got a couple good song ideas, but he's committed them, apparently, to a machine rigged of tin cans and string. Twenty years ago, he might not have had other recording options, but today, hiss-scribbled, gunked-up 4-track ephemerality is a conscious choice-- one that can be effective if you have super strong tunes and a well-defined aesthetic. While lo-fi lends a vaguely vintage UK mystical underground folk vibe (one reinforced by songs titles like "Druids" and "Song for Woodthrush") to the record, it doesn't do McCann's diffident melodies or plodding percussion any favors.
The Lord Bird Dog's label, Jagjaguwar, has wisely offered album closer "The Gift of Song in the Lion's Den", to the downloading masses as the album's free (free to post on your blog without fear of legal repercussion, anyway) mp3. Given its low-key acoustic milieu, the song is surprisingly rousing and anthemic, drawing considerable strength from a rigid beat, relentless and insinuating looping guitar figure, and McCann's high, resonant, reedy voice. Opener "The Shedding Path" is another gem molded of rudimentary melodic and rhythmic materials and apocalyptic testimony ("There was blood in your mouth/ And the song was sprung from all you see"; "Set a table for death/ Make the path straight"). But most of the seven tracks crammed between these fine bookends, including two undistinguished instrumentals, run together in a modal drone, lacking urgency or emotional inflection. Really, they're no better or worse than what you'd find on the average bedroom taper's MySpace page. In fact, the Lord Dog Bird might have eluded the attention of all but the most committed lo-fi folk fans if it weren't for two critical factors: a respected independent label with promotional muscle and a superlative parent band that's been silent too long.
